Sérène Lindhavn

The bathhouse stands out over the fjord on its own piles, reached by a covered walk from the main house. Two saunas — one hot and dry at ninety degrees, one lower and longer at seventy — a steam room, and a cold plunge that is not a plunge pool but a square hole cut through the deck into open water.

The fjord runs between two and fourteen degrees across the year. In February it is two. There is a ladder, a rope, a member of staff within sight at all times, and a rule that nobody goes in alone. Guests with heart conditions are asked, sincerely rather than as a formality, to speak to us first.

The long room

At the western end is a room with benches, blankets, no heating and a window the width of the building. Most of the time spent in the bathhouse is spent in there, wrapped up, looking at the water and saying very little.